War
by KO'ed
Summary: It’s like this every time. I’m always the first to slip away, he’s always the one to follow. Royai. Smutplz. Emoangst. Riza's POV. Drabbly oneshot thing.


This is just something I've been working on. It's a little emo, but there's some WTFHAWT kissing to make up for it. Unlike my last smut fic, "War" actually has meaning. I guess some parts are kind of awkward, but at least I finally got off my ass and pulled something out of it for you all.

so read or ur a fgt lawlz

* * *

It's like this every time. Every time, I steal away from the battlefield, leaving behind the smell of death and the sound of war. In a dark, secluded corner, I wait for him, the adrenaline refusing to evaporate from my veins. I find myself pacing impatiently, hungry for his toxic touch and addictive lips. He always comes. My heart skips a beat when he saunters toward wherever I'm hiding, an arrogant smirk dancing across his lips. Soon, those lips will be on mine, tugging, biting, _wanting_…

Stumbling clumsily over a rotting old corpse, I finally reach my refuge, the drooping garden of an abandoned schoolhouse. It isn't hard to tell what had happened to the flowers—they are clad in a cluster of brown and black dirt woven in simple, uniform patterns. I grin in spite of myself. Military boots, standard issue. Was a squadron trying to get somewhere fast, or did they just decide to trample the garden for fun?

I find a patch of relatively clean grass and collapse, feeling the dead plants scratch at my back. With trembling hands, I reach down and drop my gun in its sturdy leather holster, fingers glad to be free of the menacing, cold metal. I close my eyes and throw my head back, stretching tight the weathered skin on my neck. The pressure builds behind my eyeballs, desperately pricking at my eyelids, but I hold the tears back. There's no weakness here, not during war. Anyone who hesitates, anyone who falterers, is bound to crack within the hour. To be strong, you have to at least seem strong, an art I thought I'd mastered.

_How many have I killed now?_

My jaw and hands clench, fighting back the grief that is fast taking over. No, I can't. I can't, not when I'm so close…

"Don't."

His deep voice jerks me back from wherever I was, and I open my eyes, just aware of the short spasms of breath escaping from my mouth.

"Stop, it's okay," he says, rustling as he lies down beside me. I don't look at him, my eyes still fixed on the setting sun and the red-and-orange patterns it paints in the sky. "It's all going to be okay."

"How do you know?" I growl, turning toward him finally. Even I'm a little surprised at the venom in my tone, but it expresses the chaos whirling around in my brain well. "All those people. Children, adults, the elderly, _everyone_. It's not going to be okay. I'm not stupid. You can't expect me to believe that."

He shakes his head, and then it's his turn to stare up at the sky. Now that his piercing obsidian glare is somewhere else, I take the risk and study him. Raven hair, handsome face, toned body. A young state alchemist with a silver watch that glints innocently in the last shreds of daylight. The sophisticated scent of smoke and musky cologne hangs lightly on his skin and clothes. In times like these, who still wears cologne?

"Shut the hell up," he whispers, but in a gentle, sympathetic tone that annuls the harsh words. "Just shut the hell up, and come here."

"Wait, you—" I try to begin, but he shushes me by reaching over the dead grass and tucking a stray strand of golden hair behind my ear.

"I told you to shut the hell up," he breathes, sending an indescribable chill up my spine. Something stirs inside me, and I find myself sitting up, moving nimbly toward him, straddling his hips, leaning provocatively over his face. His scent becomes more pungent, and at this close distance, I can almost—almost—make out the brand of his cologne. It's expensive, no doubt. Classy. Addictive.

Slowly, he reaches up and cups my face, stroking my skin with his thumbs. I shiver slightly under the friction of his gloves. He smiles roguishly.

"Want me to take them off?" he asks, removing one hand from my face and tugging at the fabric appendages with his teeth. I eye the crimson sigil on the pure white cloth with interest, wondering at the mystery behind the eerie symbol. Alchemy is a strange thing, and I've never understood it. I probably never will.

"No," I say, watching him arch a sculpted eyebrow with interest. "Keep them on. I don't want to forget where we are. I don't want to…"

The familiar pressure pricks at my eyes again, and I shake my head, trying to clear unwelcome thoughts from my mind. This isn't a time for grief. I can't think about it. Not when he's here.

"Good girl," he murmurs supportively, placing a hand on my neck and dragging me down toward him. "Good girl."

Our lips collide all but softly, and for a while we are content with each other's touch before beginning to want more. He pushes me away and I, to my own disgust, whimper at the loss of contact. As soon as the sound escapes my mouth, he attacks my neck, sucking and licking and biting with all the lust and vigor a man at war should possess. I moan when he hits a sensitive spot under my chin, and he takes the opportunity to find his way back up to my lips and slide his tongue smoothly into my mouth. Eagerly, I lap at it, caressing it with my own. His clothes are in the way. Grinning into his lips, I undo the buttons of his military uniform with practiced ease and take it off him, lifting his back off the ground so I can pull it out from under him. He takes off the crisp undershirt on his own and it pains me to simply sit back and watch. Finally, when his bare chest is exposed, we can continue.

It's like this every time. I'm always the first to slip away, he's always the one to follow. The kisses, the touches, the looks we exchange are not those of lovers, but of two confused soldiers fighting to keep each other sane. We are only two people. Two people who have killed, two people who have sinned. This is what it means to be a solider. This is what it means to truly deserve death. Do we love each other? Not really. But these secret meetings in lost corridors and abandoned hallways give us something to live for. If not for the kissing and the touching and the looking, we would both be long gone. In a way, it's like an unspoken pact. Neither of us will die. To die is to strip the other of their lifeline, and, essentially, to kill them. We've both killed too many already. All of us have. And the last thing we want is to kill each other.

My fingers brush over the waistband of his pants, and he shakes his head, taking my hand and placing it at my side. Even after he lets go, I can still feel the silken touch of his glove against my palm. I look inquisitively into his eyes, searching for an answer in those dark liquid pools. They tell me that he wants it. He wants it just as much as I do, maybe even more. So why is he trying to complicate a simple thing?

"We don't have time," he hisses, looking away in self-loathing. I nod from my position above him, numbly moving off of his body so that he can sit up. Despite the gloves, I had forgotten. Forgotten where we are, what we have to do. Biting my lip, I snatch my bra off the ground, dusting it off and smirking when the dried grass rains downward. His gaze bores a hole into my back as he watches me dress, but when I turn to look at him, he's already pulling on his own blue jacket. The last I see of his body is a glimpse of a nipple, still hard but quickly softening in the light breeze. I lock the image in my mind, where it will be preserved until our next meeting. He stands.

"You should leave," he says, voice firm and clear for the first time that evening. "I have to burn down the school just in case there's anyone inside. Night."

"Good luck," I mumble in response, only to see that he's already starting toward the schoolhouse. I watch his back shrinking steadily as he advances and throws open the petrified wooden door, stepping inside. Closing my eyes, I stand, turning my back on the scene. My fingers tighten around the gun sitting in its holster and mold immediately to the all-too-familiar shape. Time to get back to work. With a deep breath and a shaky grin, I brace myself. I barely manage to step forward before a dull roar emits behind me and the black sky glows red. Heat eats away at my back and smoke billows heavenward, mingling with a deafening, terrified shriek along the way. So there were Ishbalans inside. Shame. Tightening my grip on the handgun and shooting it into the sky, I walk straight toward the war. The pulsing echoes of the shot ring through my ears, lighting my path for me. I keep moving forward until all I see is bloodlust and death, until all notions of the state alchemist have vanished from view.

And as tempting as it is, I don't look back. A soldier never does.

* * *

I read this over and I died from all the angst. SLITSLITSLIT.

But I don't know. Maybe some of you are into that.

Review, bitches, or Ima bust a cap.

Not really, though. I love you all. You're QTQTQTQTQTQs.


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